Where Light Rests

It began with the hum of morning—

soft gold sliding across a windowpane,

the kind of light that feels like forgiveness

before you even know what needs forgiving.

Somewhere, a crow cuts the sky

like a thought too sharp to hold.

Somewhere else, petals open

as if they’ve never known fear.

And in the middle of it all—

you.

Or the idea of you, maybe,

woven into birdsong,

tucked beneath the folds of moss and soil

where beginnings never quite end.

I didn’t plan on remembering.

But the earth blooms without asking,

and here I am—

barefoot in the middle of a dream

that smells like wet leaves and hope.

Then—

a turning, not loud,

but enough to shift the air.

Sudden stillness.

And the soft ache of realizing

some things return in different forms.

You were never just a moment.

You were the seed tucked inside it—

the promise, not the proof.

Now, even the shadows feel tender,

and the wind moves like it’s carrying

something holy.

And I—

I sit in the afterglow,

hands open,

heart quiet,

watching the sky relearn color.